


In the Same Breath

by TheFantabulousPandemonium



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Animal Death, Child Abuse, Dark Tom Riddle, Deliberate Neglect, Enemies to Friends, Even if he is a children, Explicit Abuse, Gen, Grey Harry Potter, Harm to Animals, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Harry Potter is a Vindicative Little Shit, Implied/Referenced Torture, Legilimency, Master of Death Harry Potter, Minor Character Death, Morally Questionable Decisions, Past Child Abuse, Potter luck strikes again, Questionable Use of the Mind Link, Soul Bond, Soul brothers, Voldemort doesn't know how to deal with children, this is getting pretty dark kiddos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:10:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10564278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFantabulousPandemonium/pseuds/TheFantabulousPandemonium
Summary: After a deal with Death that he doesn't quite remember, Harry James Potter wakes up once more in the cupboard under the stairs. With his previous memories intact and wandless magic within his grasp, he definitely has plans for this second chance.As does Voldemort.(Chapters being edited.)





	1. The Oracle in Your Chest

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's been binging fic for like, a week straight. (Hint: it's me.)
> 
> Edit 11/10/17: God i overuse words like no tomorrow. Being edited for clarity and continuity, don't think im changing anything big but feel free to reread the chapters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic description of animal death
> 
>  _All this doubt is creepin' in  
>  Inside out, I shed my skin  
> Can you hear the drumming?  
> There's a revolution coming _  
> Revolution - The Score

Harry woke to darkness.

It was not a slow or gradual process. The air tasted stale even as he wrestled the blanket off his head, palms hot and his chest shaking though he was sure there was no reason for it. The cot he was laying in felt smaller than he was used to and unusually lumpy. He frowned, stretching out and groaning at the ache in his back.

Swinging his legs over the side, Harry sat up, rubbing at the worn denim distractedly. _Too much firewhiskey_? He didn't usually wear jeans anymore. They felt too big and his feet were bare, soles brushing against the rough floor.

"Ginny...?" Harry whispered.

There was no response.

His shirt tugged at the side of his neck, like the other had slipped off his shoulder during the night. That didn't bother him, adjusting the collar and slipping a hand under his pillow to grab his wand. He didn't find it, but he did find a pair of glasses. That, in and of itself, was strange.

Harry has stopped wearing them as soon as he could get his eyesight fixed. One of the bows was broken, evidenced by the wad of tape at the joint, and the lenses were scratched deeply enough to be felt.

He slipped them on anyway, the barely-there blurred shapes becoming only slightly sharper. Light, pale and weak, slipped through a crack under what he assumed to be a door, revealing the room to be significantly smaller than he expected. The realization struck him like a slap to the face.

He was back in his Cupboard. Somehow.

This had to be a joke, right?

Harry took a shaky breath. Then another, and another, until his hands clenched into fists around the tattered blanket and his shoulders trembled with the force it took not to cry right then and there. He really, _really_ didn't want to be here, or deal with the Dursleys ever again.

It felt like he'd just gotten through Petunia's words and Vernon's discipline and shaken off the lingering doubts. And to have to experience it again? Harry didn't think he would survive it.

He had to get out.

Standing was a painful experiment, his feet prickling with disuse and nearly hitting his head on the ceiling burned into his memory with startling clarity. It was exactly as he remembered it, down to the hairline cracks and dusty cobwebs.

He wondered if his magic would still obey him, or slide out of his grasp like what usually happened when he tried to practice wandlessly. There was really only one way to find out. Thankfully, one of the first things he learnt was how to unlock things.

A small wiggle of his hand and a hoarse ' _alohamora_ ' forced the door open with a soft click.

The full moon shone bright through the kitchen windows. illuminating the pristine house and the world outside. Some of Dudley's old toys were packed neatly into a bookcase across from the Cupboard.

A brief thought pushed itself to the front of Harry's mind without prompting.

_Was Teddy alright?_

He swallowed down the guilt that bubbled up, looking away from the window after a moment and heading to the front door instead. Unlocking it manually was a challenge for his height, but he eventually managed through the harsh reminder of just how small he'd been.

Speaking of, Harry didn't even know how old he was at the moment. Most of the years before he received his letter were a blur of unpleasantness that he tried not to look at too closely.

The night was chilly and the pavement more so the longer he stayed on it. He couldn't take the Knight Bus, not without a wand or any sort of money. Not that it was his favorite method of transportation, but it was better than walking barefoot to London. And anything was better than the Dursleys.

So Harry kept walking.

He didn't know why, exactly, he was set on London, but it was the closest place he could go that had an entrance into the magical world that he knew of. The others were either on the continent or in Scotland, and he doubted he could make it that far like this.

So London it was.

His feet hurt worse by the time dawn peeked over the horizon, his heart thumping hard against his ribs with each breath. This body wasn't used to it, not yet, and he'd barely left Surrey. He stopped at a small corner store just opening its doors to take a breather, the clerk eying him with something akin to pity and suspicion. Harry checked the newspaper first.

June 30th, 1986.

He was, apparently, five. No wonder his stamina was shot.

He took his time putting the paper back, smoothing down the crinkled edges and trying to stop trembling. Six years until he got his letter again. Six years until he could attend Hogwarts once more. Until he could go _home_ and have it be every bit as wonderful as he remembered.

Six years was a very, very long time to a five year-old.

"Excuse me?" Harry said. The clerk turned from where he was leaning against the counter, raising a brow. He didn't look older than twenty.

"Can I help you?" His voice was distantly polite, but the expression on his face was condescending and Harry didn't like it.

"Which way is London, sir?" It took the clerk a moment to think, then gesture toward the way he came.

"Somewhere that way, lad." He said, and promptly began ignoring him at Harry's muttered thanks. Half tempted to nick a candy bar even though he didn't really like sweets, he skulked back outside with his hands in his pockets to warm them. Harry sat on the curb, watching the few vehicles on the road pass.

Everything, it seemed, was against him.

He couldn't go back to the Dursleys. That was out of the question. So was taking the Bus, or hiding out in Surrey until he scrounged up enough bills and a wand - somehow - to get to Diagon Alley. What else could he do as a child?

His mind raced to find a solution.

Harry didn't know how long he sat there, the sun bright on his face and warming his small frame. He was only vaguely aware of a car passing, the color half-familiar, until it stopped with a screech of tires and backed up until the window could roll down in front of him.

" _Boy_."

The enraged hiss made his stomach drop to his feet and dread curl around his shoulders as he looked up, feeling rather sick. Vernon, face slowly turning a horrible shade of purple he was faintly sure he'd seen on Tonks once, was nearly leaning out the window. Harry didn't say a word.

"Get. In." Vernon said.

He shrunk in on himself but stood, slinking to the back seat and opening the door. It slammed shut behind him, the Dursley's breathing loud and echoing round his head. His feet left dirty prints on the clean carpeting.

"Do you even _realize_ what you've done, boy?" _Tried and failed to run away_? Harry didn't say that aloud, however, letting Vernon continue to rant at him. He knew better than to talk back to the man.

His body ached, screaming at him from both the exertion and the fact that he'd gotten caught. How was Harry to know that this was the route his uncle took to work every day? Sometimes it felt like his luck had to be some sort of curse.

" ** _Boy!_** " Vernon roared, making it very clear he hadn't answered a question he should have. Harry took a small breath, blinking rapidly.

"Yes Uncle Vernon." He answered dutifully. Petulantly.

The car stopped in the driveway of Number Four with a jerk.

"Cupboard. Go. Now." The Dursley said.

Harry went.

Petunia was waiting by the door, her worried look turning to disdain and manicured nails digging into his arm the moment it shut behind him.

"How did you..." she started before changing her mind, "no, I don't want to know." Her grip tightened and the door he'd accidentally left open felt like a death sentence the closer they got.

"Stay in there and no funny business." Petunia seethed. Harry didn't have to be told twice, stumbling into his boot cupboard and hitting his shin on the cot. The lock clicked menacingly behind him.

His aunt bustled away with a sniff. Alone with his thoughts once more, he stood there for what felt like hours, shoulders shaking violently and wishing to be anywhere else in the world. He knew very, very well what would happen once Vernon got home and he was not looking forward to it.

Hell, he'd rather duel Voldemort without a wand than deal with the angry man in his current state.

Wait.

 _Voldemort_. Voldemort was still alive.

Which meant their mental link had to still be active, albeit very distantly. He wasn't quite sure if Voldemort had a body at this point in time but the knowledge both relieved him and made him dread for the future. Did he really want to go through all that stress and violence again? Maybe he could just move to the continent or somewhere in Africa and forget all about this.

Finally calming to the point that he could think straight, Harry curled into his cot, tugging the frayed blanket up to his ears and staring into the dark nothingness he knew was the opposite wall.

He still despised Voldemort.

But he also pitied the man after what he'd learnt about him from Dumbledore and the Horcruxes. Voldemort - no, Tom Riddle had been human, once. Had been a child surrounded by a world that both loved and hated him.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered what would have become of him and the prophecy if Dumbledore had given him the position as a teacher. Would he still be Voldemort?

It wasn't like people were born evil.

Harry stared for a while longer, listening to Dudley stomp down the stairs and mulling over his choices. He could contact the Dark Lord through their link, send him his location and be done with it. He was tired.

But, did he honestly want to just hand out that information? Could he trust someone who had tried to kill him multiple times?

Harry didn't know.

* * *

Voldemort's first breath was more dirt than air.

It was damp, the musky taste one of pine and copper, and far warmer than he was used to. Heady. Full of life.

Tenderly testing out his muscles brought a myriad of new information. The first being that he was missing his customary robes, a stray breeze sending goosebumps down his back. The second that he was covered in _something_ that made the rest of his skin crawl at the texture.

The once-proud Dark Lord fumbled to his knees, ignoring the lancing pain through his temples that came with opening his eyes, and retched.

He lived.

Fists clenched tightly on his thighs to keep his hands from shaking, Voldemort took another breath, coughing up mucus and acid that burned his mouth. He took another.

Finally, his vision cleared enough to see the damage around him.

The scattered remains of what could have been a snake surrounded him, pieces of spin digging into his ankles and clinging to his arms. The blood, both the animal's and his own, was starting to clot in clump, dark clots mixing with what he assumed were the innards. The half-digesting lump of matter fur and meat nearby must have been its last meal.

He took another, deeper breath, his mind clearer than it'd been since his sixth year.

Slowly, a hand went to his face, pausing halfway there to observe the strange appendage. It was indeed a hand, but not the same dead-pale the Dark Lord had grown used to.

It was too... _human_.

Turning the limb to face his palm, he clenched it into a fist and actually felt the bite of his ragged nails into the flesh. He absently noted the blood and dirt under them, the slight smirk dripping from his face.

Lord Voldemort, it seemed, was far more alive than he'd been in decades.

Alive.

Whole.

And angry.


	2. Like Gospel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: explicit depiction of child abuse
> 
>  _so swing down that sledgehammer through the wood  
>  a little test of mind over flesh oughtta do you good  
> get up off the ground  
> you can lay down when the day is done_  
> Fingers to the Bone - Brown Bird

The lock clicked.

Harry's eyes flew open, his entire body going taut. He'd fallen asleep. _Merlin_ , he'd fallen asleep and hadn't finished putting together his escape plan. He cursed under his breath.

"Boy." Vernon said.

His voice was soft and dangerous through the unopened door, barely muffled by the wood. Harry stood with a wobble, swallowing down dread and bile until he could breathe properly. Just this once, he promised himself, just this once and he could get out of here. He just had to survive this one punishment.

His cupboard opened to the hum of electric lights blazing and a command he loathed to follow. He stared at the man's shoes for a moment before ducking his head to come out, wincing. It did nothing to stall the inevitable.

The meaty hand in his hair hurt more than he remembered, his uncle's iron grip unrelenting. He barely recognized the kitchen through the tears threatening to spill and the cold bite of linoleum against his feet. Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry held his breath at the sound of Vernon's belt being undone.

They both knew what was coming. He didn't struggle at being manhandled against the wall, nails scrabbling against the plaster and chewing on his inner lip to distract himself.

"We've been nothing but accommodating to you, boy." He said. His name was punctuated by the sharp sting of leather against his thighs. It was barely softened by the oversized shirt he still had on, stinging long after the initial impact. Harry almost cried out, biting down on his cheek instead.

 _Just this once_ , he repeated to himself like a prayer. Then he'd be out of here and deep enough in the Wizarding World that the Dursleys could never get their hands on him again.

"And yet - and yet!" Another strike hit the same area, aim as impeccable as checkered floor underneath him.

"Ungrateful little _wretch_ that you are," Harry whimpered at the next blow, unable to stop the noise escaping his throat, "you decide, in your _infinite_ wisdom, to run away. And for what!"

He didn't catch the next few words Vernon said, trying to twist away from the belt and only getting another hit across his back instead. Harry knew he had done something he wasn't supposed to and was being punished for it, even though it felt completely unfair. He dared go out where others could see him and whisper about ' _that criminal boy from Number Four_ '. Harry felt he was practically on St. Brutus' doorstep.

Mentally, he counted the remaining strikes. Three. Five.

Ten.

His body ached when Vernon let him collapse to the floor with a hissed command to get back in the cupboard. With no meals for three days. That was soothingly normal, at least. He was used to going without whatever food he couldn't steal.

Harry could have laughed, had he not been swallowing blood and skin from where he'd bitten his cheek open.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon." He rasped, if only for something to say. His uncle apparently didn't like his tone, a large hand hauling his arm up to a few feet above his normal height. Harry followed the limb if only for the fact that he rather liked it attached to him at that joint, limping after the man to his darkened cage.

"Three days." Vernon repeated like an omen and slammed the door closed. The lock clicked.

And Harry was alone once more.

He collapsed onto the cot face-first, tucking his nose into the crook of an arm and trying to settle his heart rate. It didn't work like he wanted it to, a few moments all it took for shuddering half-sobs to shake his frame.

Was it bad to say he hated the Dursleys?

Rationally, he knew that they kept a roof over his head despite how much they hated him and kept him clothed and fed, barely, but anger festered underneath his skin. He'd much rather deal with Umbridge and Voldemort trying to kill him at the same time. Or be forced to cast an Unforgivable on- on anyone. Preferably _them_ , if Harry was being honest with himself. The thought of revenge for all the punishment and discipline he'd received an alluring one.

But that was more of the Dark Lord's thing.

Speaking of.

Gingerly relaxing his body, he took a steadying breath. It was easy to feel around his mindscape, looking for imperfections and breaks where the Horcrux formerly resided. Was residing.

And with it came the link to Voldemort he'd hated in his former life.

He mentally shoved a large box around it, the blackened sliver of the Dark Lord's soul rippling into a slightly humanoid form in the corner of the box. Harry hesitated exactly once, the twisted mass of his Horcrux shifting in anticipation with a terrible sound.

_Did he have to do this?_

He shoved a hand into the viscous sludge with a shudder, grabbing a hold of the connection and sending an image of the house and a general location toward whatever form Voldemort was in with a vindictive shove. The thing wailed, earsplittingly loud, and a multitude black tendrils slapped at the off-white walls surrounding it. They left thick, dripping puddles of the mucus-like material around the corner.

Harry wrenched his fingers free, unsure what to make of the pleasure warming his chest.

No. No, he didn't have to do this but he was going to anyway. He refused to go through this treatment more than once, Dumbledore be damned.

Shedding the interior of his mindscape like a coat, Harry wiped his face on a sleeve with a sniffle and set his glasses aside. He was stuck here for Vernon's promised three days. There would be plenty of time to put together another attempt at escape.

For now, he'd try to sleep off the pain.

His dreams were anything but peaceful. It felt like he couldn't get more than an hour at a time, haunted by the past and his own mistakes. He relieved Sirius falling into the veil at least three times, followed swiftly by Bellatrix's too-wide grin aggressively etching itself onto the back of his lids. Remus and Tonks laid side by side for far too long. He was unable to look away, even with someone crying in his ear and trying to pull him somewhere else.

 _His fault_.

He was already awake before Petunia rapped on his door for a bathroom break and a quick gulp of water from the faucet, answering her dully when prompted. She didn't say a thing about his blotchy cheeks or red-rimmed eyes, though she must have seen them. Harry, in turn, didn't tell her the white-knuckled grip on his shoulder hurt more than the belt did.

He was back in the cot when the door shut him in once more, thankfully, the blinding headache only attacking him when he was safely tucked in. Harry pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to resist the urge to scream along with the presence in his mind.

Whatever it was, Voldemort wasn't pleased. At all.

Harry didn't dare dig deeper into the emotion. He just hoped it would sort itself out soon.


	3. Don't Feel a Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: depictions of deliberate neglect of a child
> 
>  _I came to kill 'em, now I'm  
>  Wiping the spit from my eyes  
> I take a beating, but I  
> I'll never give up  
> Oh, I think I'd rather die_  
> I'd Rather Die - Barns Courtney

The first day brought more locks.

Petunia let him out to use the bathroom exactly once, sometime around noon, before steering him back into the cupboard without saying a word to him at all. Vernon glared at him from his position next to the door, ripped plastic packages littering the floor and the drill gripped tightly in his hand.

Aside from the buzzing around his head, sounding more like a swarm of doxies than a power tool, the entire house seemed quieter than he was used to. After the twins were born, and their three eldest off to Hogwarts, it felt like his own home had never been anything other than set to full volume.

The telly in the living room was on, news playing softly in the background in between the bouts of drilling. Dishes clinked together in the sink, Vernon muttered obscenities just loud enough for him to hear, and the cupboard fell silent after three more clicks. Harry didn't think they'd be too hard to unlock magically.

He hugged his knees closer to his chest, roughly shoving an image of his uncle through the connection, his face contorted in rage and an odd shade of reddish purple. The Horcrux shrieked, the mass shivering and half-melting into the floor of its prison.

Harry waited a few minutes, relaxing when nothing ricocheted back through. It was impossible to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, anxiety and restlessness making him itch to be outside instead. His stomach growled.

The second day was louder, every sound echoing through his head.

He wasn't let out, the radio in the kitchen set low to some station he didn't know. Petunia was cooking, must be. Would probably be cooking all day. The smell was absolute torture, only getting worse as the hours crawled by. Harry didn't bother moving from the cot.

He was hungry, pain lacing his sides whenever he shifted into a position that wouldn't put a limb to sleep. It was easier to stay in his mindscape, where he could almost ignore the physical side effects of his punishment.

It was a simple room, the Horcrux a huddled mass of black in the farthest corner and the rest of the off-white walls covered in hairsbreadth cracks that reminded him of his ceiling. He ran a hand along the wall closest to him, dried paint flaking off at the slightest tough and stabbing underneath his nails. The undercoat was darker, more grey than white, and didn't change when he absently scratched at a large patch of it.

He didn't approach the figure, turning back the way he came within a few meters of it. Distantly, Harry heard voices that didn't belong to the Dursleys. Was it time for dinner already? He was almost done, then.

Behind him, the Horcrux shifted with a groan, whatever it was made of popping and dripping to the floor in thick clots like mud.

" _Child_." Its voice scraped against his ears, echoing around the room despite the low volume.

He froze, cold tendrils of fear wrapping its fingers around his spine and his shoulders curling up to his ears. Something large and wet hit the ground following a broken wail. Harry flinched and took a few steps back, unsure if he should deal with the pain or deal with whatever was happening. He'd never really dealt with the Horcrux in his previous life, living largely unaware of the parasite until the end.

" _What_. Did you.  **Do**." It said, like every word was a struggle to form. It probably was. He didn't answer it, tossing a memory of his aunt at the thing instead. The one where she'd been hovering over his shoulder while he tried not to burn the bacon for Vernon's birthday.

" ** _Why_**." The Horcrux didn't finish the question, collapsing into a half-formed puddle and the word dissolving into a piercing scream.

Harry didn't know.

He didn't know why he was being petty and giving the Horcrux these things, or why he was five years old again in the first place. It was frustrating.

The sharp rap against his door startled him from his mind, rattling the extra locks with malicious force. Petunia opened it a moment later and he rose unsteadily from the cot, stumbling into the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom once more. Taking a breath, Harry steadied himself with a glance at the mirror, drinking greedily from the tap afterward and ignoring the bruises underneath his eyes.

"Boy." His aunt's voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding. He turned the faucet off, wiped the lingering water on the decorative hand towel, and trudged back to his cage.

One day more.

Harry sat back on his heels against the door, fists clenched around the excess denim and half-heartedly listening to the news programme his uncle was watching.

 _One day more_.

* * *

Exhaling softly, Voldemort wrapped his fingers around the borrowed wand, slowly spinning the ash wood in an attempt to leash his frustration. Staying in a muggle hostel somewhere close to Nuremberg was not where he'd ever seen himself ending up, the darkened room closing in around him in a way that made it hard to breathe properly.

From what he could gather, it had been a little less than four years since his supposed downfall to the Potter child. Time travel, like this, was close to impossible for even Wizarding folk. Five hours had been the maximum last he knew, without serious harm to the traveler but with scores of unpleasant side effects.

And the Dark Lord had been dead. Truly dead.

He remembered Death's half-rotted face well enough, remembered the Being's bone-chilling laughter as well. His anticlimactic defeat with the _disarming_ spell, of all things. But nothing beyond that.

It was highly unnerving.

Voldemort sighed, running a hand through his hair for the novelty of it. Now was the perfect time to take England by storm, with everyone complacent and inattentive. Even if Potter told anyone he was still alive, because this was definitely the child's fault, it wasn't like anyone would believe him.

The connection to the boy was absolutely no help at all. It was mostly blocked off, aside from little flashes of memories and emotions. Even when he'd been able to force the link, there was nothing but an empty room to greet him.

He desperately wanted to _Crucio_ someone to get rid of all these unnecessary, pent up emotions and the restlessness that tugged at his heels, whispering that he was running out of time.

For what, the Dark Lord didn't know, but he had to keep moving.

Dawn came soon enough, spilling through uncurtained windows and over the dusty wooden floor. He rose with it, rolling up the sleeves to his transfigured shirt and slipping into his shoes. His roommate for the night slept on. The muggle way was not one Voldemort was familiar with anymore, but it was the easiest. After all, who would expect it?

He grinned, checking his stolen watch and mentally kicking around a few numbers to get the time.

Britain called.


	4. The Sun in Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: explicit violence both in general and towards a child, implied torture, and minor character death
> 
>  _I've been up, I've been down  
>  Seen the world from the ground  
> But I hear the drumming  
> Now my veins are pumping  
> Scraped my knees, bruised my heart  
> It's where you end, not where you start_  
> Higher - The Score

His punishment ended with a whisper. Harry was allowed to nibble on a slice of unbuttered toast despite his queasy stomach wanting to not eat at all. He ate anyway, eyes on the floor and listening to his uncle talk at him.

The kitchen was an unwelcoming, intimidating space so soon after being disciplined in it, though he knew the thought was ridiculous, and he suspected they knew his fear and used it against him.

Don't look up, don't look them in the eyes. Be polite, even though he wanted to scream and throw things like Dudley having one of his tantrums.

_Yes, Uncle Vernon. Yes, Aunt Petunia._

Harry did his best to appear appropriately cowed. It wasn't hard, between his pounding headache and his body rebelling against the bit of breakfast. Rationally, he knew the Dursleys couldn't hurt him too badly, else he'd be useless, but rational had never applied to his aunt and uncle. Merlin, it barely applied to him.

His chores for the day were simple. Clean the already clean kitchen, sweep and mop the floors, and water the garden.

"Don't disappoint me, boy." Vernon said. Harry didn't plan on it, setting his plate in the sink when he was dismissed and slipping his hands into the too big rubber gloves. He could survive a few days here to recuperate.

Hopefully.

The thing about routine was, mostly, that it was hard to get out of a rut when you've been in it for more than half your life. A few days turned into half a week, to a week or three before he could work up enough energy to put his escape plan into motion.

It was relatively easy to pilfer loose coins from their usual place between the sofa cushions, but it wasn't nearly enough pounds to take a taxi. The rest, hopefully, he could take from Vernon's wallet. Harry loathed to do so, more for the fact that he kept it near him at all times than any moral quandaries over stealing money.

If it got him away from the Dursleys, he didn't care how he came across it.

Three weeks to the day of when he'd woken up in his cupboard, Harry unlocked the door to his boot cupboard with a whisper and made his way toward his uncle's bedroom with careful steps. The stairs were easy to navigate, intimately aware of where they creaked and settled from living underneath them. The door was left open a crack, and he pushed it further.

Immediately, the faint snores he was used to became louder. Harry held his breath, eyes darting about the darkened room and catching a glimpse of what he was after on Vernon's nightstand.

 _Great_.

He breathed out with the noise, pausing when it stuttered for a few seconds, and slowly made his way to the edge of the bed. The worn leather was warm in his grasp and Harry worked quickly, taking a handful of bills and not bothering to count the denominations. The faster he could get this done, the faster he could be heading toward London.

Briefly, he considered taking the wallet with him. It felt like a bad idea, setting it back where he found it and backing out of the room.

He didn't get far.

Downstairs, something exploded.

It sounded very much like the door had splintered apart, the mental image of broken pieces hanging limply from the hinges not a pleasant one. Harry's back hit the wall beside the bedroom door, curling into a rough ball with his knees at his chin. The suffocating aura of dark magic seeped through the house like poison. He still shoved the bills into an oversized pocket at Vernon's loud half-asleep swearing, unwilling to be caught with it even in the face of an unknown dark wizard.

It had to be a wizard; there was no other possible explanation.

Harry's mind raced, another explosion shaking the house, and Petunia screamed somewhere behind him. He could only do the most basic spells wandlessly, and nonverbal spells were a whole other kettle of fish he didn't want to touch. Not when silence was the best choice for survival at the moment. And he wanted to survive this, whatever it was. His scar ached.

Hopefully this was just a nightmare.

" _Where. **Are**. You_." A low, rasping voice filled the hallway, the wizard's words and steps loud in the resulting silence. Harry shrunk in on himself and tried to stop shaking, fingers clenched around the hem of his shirt. His uncle muttered something, hefting himself out of bed before yelling out obscenities. He could barely hear them through the immense pressure in his ears and Harry screwed his eyes shut.

It wasn't, unfortunately, a nightmare.

Inside its prison, the Horcrux stirred, the sludge bubbling upwards in an aborted motion. An approximation of what he assumed was a hand shot out, cracking the wall and splattering black droplets against it. Something inside it shifted.

" _Child_."

Harry couldn't tell if the voice was the current intruder or the one in his head. Of all the nights, he lamented, for this sort of thing to happen to him, it just *had* to be tonight. Tonight and right now, instead of a few hours later when he was long gone.

Something slammed against the wall near him and his aunt screamed again, her words lost in the angry buzzing rattling around his skull. He realized that it was his uncle a bit too late, eyes widening at the horrible choking sound and the oddly pale shade of blue Vernon was turning in the moonlight.

He should do something to stop this. But what _could_ he do?

" _Come to me, boy, and save the hassle_." The wizard said, dragging the last word into a hiss.

Harry flinched at the name, the motion catching the intruder's gaze. His wand flashed bone-white as he turned away and the Dursley slumped against the landing with a dull thud. Dread made it hard to swallow.

A fist closed around the front of his shirt, twisting until he had no other place to go but where it wanted him. He was hauled into the air without preamble, legs kicking and struggling to breathe, and drawn closer to the wizard's darkened face. He could barely hear anything over his own frantic heartbeat and the intruder's heavy breathing.

" ** _Potter_**." They said.

Harry wheezed, fingers searching for any weakness in the other's grasp and finding none. His hands were still free, he realized, but he didn't have a spell in the world that would work against whoever this was. *Did he*?

" _Expecto Patro_ -!" A vicious tug behind his navel made him panic, words just a second too late as the feeling of being stretched through a needle-thin tube took over. He gagged at the snap back into reality, shivering and trying to keep down his pitiful breakfast. The fight left him just as quickly, hanging limp against his kidnapper.

Then it happened again.

Absently, Harry wondered if the wizard knew you weren't supposed to apparate with children under seven since their core was barely able to survive one trip, let alone multiple trips in the span of a few minutes. It had been one of the first things beaten into him after the first child. Coming to the conclusion that they probably knew and just didn't care, he tried to blink away the queasiness of what he was pretty sure was five consecutive jumps. The world was spinning even when he closed his eyes.

His captor decided to release him then, letting him fall to the floor with nothing to catch him.

The Horcrux laughed at him. Well, it was sort of laughing and he was pretty sure it was amused at his predicament for some odd reason, but the wet, hiccuping noise was far too much for his senses at the moment. He made an attempt to push himself onto his elbows, bile rising up the back of his throat.

Harry retched, nearly falling face-first into it afterward.

The wizard clicked his tongue, a sweep of his wand banishing the mess from where it'd splashed on his shoes. A hand snaked under his chin, forcing him to look up at his captor and blurry surroundings.

"What's wrong, child?" The wizard said, the ambient light of the candle-lit room illuminating his face enough to make Harry pause, then panic.

Tom Riddle grinned back at him, not a day over sixteen and wearing decidedly muggle clothes underneath the dark, velveteen robes two times his size. His hair was messy and it looked like he hadn't slept in days, but the Dark Lord's younger face had haunted Harry's sleep more than enough for him to recognize it anywhere.

"That _was_  what you wanted, hm?"

No. Whatever that was, he hadn't wanted it. He just wanted to get to London and disappear from everyone. Voldemort chuckled then, the soft sound dampened by the dark curtains hanging around the room, and his grip tightened. Nails, ragged and sharp, dug into his flesh without warning. Harry squirmed.

"Now tell me, Harry Potter." He leant closer, the smell of blood and dirt dogging every movement in an unnatural way. A thumb brushed softly against his cheek in contrast to his words. "What. Did. You. _Do_."

Harry didn't have an answer.

His uncle had been unceremoniously murdered, he'd been kidnapped by a strangely younger version of his mortal enemy, and dumped on the ground at said mortal enemy's feet all in one night. And then he was questioned about something he couldn't remember doing or if it was even his fault in the first place? Not that Vernon didn't deserve it.

Guilt struck Harry hard after that thought. Sure, he hated his uncle, but the man didn't deserve to be suffocated to death.

"I don't know." He answered quietly, after a few moments of the Dark Lord visibly growing more frustrated. Voldemort threw him away, snarling, his wand aiming at Harry with a flourish and a spell he couldn't hear.

Red light, swiftly followed by insurmountable pain that easily topped the burn from skidding along the carpet, gave the Unforgivable away.

People weren't born evil, no, but they grew rather well into the role. Harry blacked out.


	5. The Prettiest Little Parlour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: harm to a child, mentions of abuse, uh. all the warning that come with legilimency?
> 
> _Step into my parlour, said the Spider to the Fly._

"I thought you were supposed to be my _equal_ , Potter." Voldemort drawled.

He paced along the back wall as Harry fought to control the twitching that lasted far longer than the actual spell did. His throat was dry as parchment, made painful by a few frame-wracking coughs, and it felt like he was overheating. The Dark Lord caressed the wand like it was a cat.

Honestly? He didn't have the time or patience for whatever game Voldemort was playing. And it had to be a game, if only to ignore the overwhelming confusion and distinct feeling that he was missing something.

"I'm five." Harry rasped. Despite the humorless situation, he had the urge to laugh. He settled for a half-smirk, too exhausted to pick himself up from where he'd toppled. If he hadn't been watching for the complete lack of something better to focus on - if he'd blinked - he was sure he would have missed the way the Dark Lord hesitated.

It was gone in an instant, Voldemort sweeping forward and dropping his cloak on a conveniently nearby chair.

"Well," he said, crouching in front of him and knotting a hand in his already messy hair, "if you're unwilling to share why, I suppose I'll have to take it myself."

Harry blinked.

There was nothing out of the ordinary. No shouted spell nor flood of unwanted memories assaulting his senses. Their eyes met for a brief moment and he had time to wonder about the color before sliding from reality into the Horcrux's prison.

He stood between it and Voldemort, unsteady on his feet.

"This is it?" The Dark Lord asked. The distaste in his voice was obvious and he paced the small enclosure with a predator's grace. "This is your mindscape? Are you _truly_ this simple, Potter?"

Harry made to answer, but his voice was drowned by the screeching mass of black behind him that rose to an earsplitting volume the closer the other got. Voldemort paused, then turned toward the other side to probably get away from the sound. It rung in his ears when the creature went dead silent.

The Dark Lord reached out to touch the flaking wallpaper His image flickered to that of the person Harry knew him best as, and he shuddered.

Still, there was nothing to incriminate him.

" _Where is it_." He murmured.

Voldemort whirled back toward him and stalked forward. He backed up automatically, eyes widening and stumbling into the viscous muck of the Horcrux. It was freezing but felt like tar, gritty and mostly unyielding between his toes. Tendrils of black shot out, droplets fizzing out of existence the further they got from the mass and clinging to his jeans.

They both froze, a hand reaching out like it meant to grab his shirt collar once more.

The Dark Lord's irritated growl startled him. Harry blinked again, tearing his eyes away from the other's and wincing at the pounding headache working it way behind his eyes. The grip in his hair was harsher than before, nails scratching his scalp, and his neck was bent at an odd angle as the older boy leant back.

"Useless." Voldemort hissed.

Harry flinched, trying not to let the word get to him. He failed spectacularly, his stomach dropping into a knotted mess.

The Dark Lord didn't let him go immediately. He exhaled sharply, forcing the roiling anger behind a blank, contemplative facade. It would have been interesting to watch, had he not been unable to look anywhere else. The room was quiet for a moment, blurry candles flickering in his peripheral.

"Perhaps," the sibilant murmur carried despite the heavy curtains and soft tone, "perhaps you're not so useless as it seems, child. Best not, as the phrase goes, look a gift thestral in the mouth."

Unable to stop the shiver worming down his spine at the implication, Harry narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to retort. Only to be stopped by Voldemort's other hand splayed across the lower half of his face. He barely resisted the urge to bite it, if only that the scent of decay made him gag.

"Let's not have any of your smart remarks." The Dark Lord said.

Harry was tired of being silenced. Tired of not having any sort of choice in his second chance of a life and the smug bastard wasn't even letting him speak out. He glowered up at the other wizard, hoping the inventive mental curse translated well enough without touching the Horcrux. His legs, even outside of the mental prison, felt as if they'd fallen asleep hours ago.

Voldemort frowned. Harry did send the image through, just to see the reaction, before slamming the connection shut once more. Something twitched on the Dark Lord's face.

Harry got the feeling he was very, very close to being Crucio'd again.

Instead, he was released as Voldemort stood, wiping his hands on his trousers with a glare that could rival Snape. Relief flooded his senses, slumping against the floor with a quiet breath, before being replaced by the paranoid wariness that came from both Moody's teachings and years of living with the Dursleys.

"You're staying with me until further notice, child." The clipped tone brooked no argument. Harry immediately rejected the notion. It still felt like he wasn't quite through being punished, like he was exchanging one cage for another, but he was done blindly going along with someone else's plans. Especially when this cage felt significantly smaller than his boot cupboard. He'd be cursed if he disagreed or showed even an ounce of resistance, if the way Voldemort treated his followers was any indication.

Harry had always been the rebellious sort, anyway. Ran in the family.

The Dark Lord slipped into his robe with a fluid motion, not paying him any attention. He swallowed down his nervousness and the dry cough threatening to come out, letting the anger and hatred from his previous lifetime bubble up to the surface.

"No, I'm not." He said. Voldemort paused, staring down at him like he was a particularly interesting insect. His wand was out, pale wood glinting in the light.

"Oh?" Was the soft reply. It sounded dangerous, like he was openly staring a basilisk in the face.

But he'd faced a basilisk before and came out on top. Voldemort was nothing. Harry hoped.

"I'm staying in London."

The older wizard snorted, breaking the tension and bringing a hand up to cover his mouth with a laugh. Confusion and anger twisted through him, clenching his fists and wondering if he could sock Voldemort in the jaw from this height. Just once would be enough for him.

"Potter, you are in London." The Dark Lord said. "In Knockturn."

That was, perhaps, the last thing Harry ever expected to come out of his mouth. He stared in disbelief, brows furrowing. How in the world did Voldemort have a place in Knockturn Alley so soon after his supposed defeat?

Was there something he was missing?

Tom Riddle smiled blithely at him, teeth clicking together like dead men's nails in the silence between them. He closed his robes button by button, taking his time, and flipped the hood up until Harry couldn't see more than a sliver of his face. He strode toward the door behind them confidently, turning to smile at him again.

"Do behave yourself." Voldemort said, and slammed the door shut.

Harry rose onto his elbows, feeling very much like he was going to be sick again and not bothering to make sense of the threads the Dark Lord was weaving in this time line.

This second chance was coming together _splendidly_.


End file.
